Night Thinking
by desolate butterfly
Summary: Bookverse: Tony/Henry one-shot. Tony can't sleep and winds up dealing with his insomnia by not-dealing with the other weird stuff in his life. Like the vampire he's living with.


Title: Night Thinking  
Author: Des  
Series: Bookverse, takes place between the last Blood book and the first Smoke book.  
Pairing: Tony/Henry  
Rating: R-ish?  
Length: 1, 292 words  
Summary: Tony can't sleep and winds up dealing with his insomnia by not-dealing with the other weird stuff in his life. 

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It wasn't fair.

Tony pounded the pillow into submission with a fist and tried adjusting his position again, elbow sinking into the soft, probably posturepedic mattress. He sighed and closed his eyes only to open them a few seconds later and stare at the ceiling. Not fair at all. He was a twenty-one year old male, skinny but in good health, active during the day (the gopher job at the construction site saw to that), in bed at a reasonable hour…

He looked over at the clock-radio by the bedside table. One-thirty. Way reasonable for someone his age. So why couldn't he _sleep?_ He rolled over onto his back and spread his arms and legs out like he imagined a starfish might do if it had a King-sized bed. That was one of the neat things about sharing an apartment with Henry. Since the smaller room was easier to board up against the sun, Tony got the master bedroom all to himself, which included getting the bigger bed and a view of the city outside his window. 

The walk-in closet, however, was all Henry's. Tony didn't have nearly enough clothes to warrant using anything except the dresser and a couple hangers for his one good suit and shirt. At the time, he'd protested that he didn't even need a good suit (just what was so wrong with jeans that weren't ripped and a clean sweater anyway?), but Henry was paying for it—Henry was paying for _everything_—so he let it go.

Tony didn't really let himself think about the whole situation for too long. If he thought about it, _really_ thought about what he owed Henry, he'd start worrying about just what the hell he thought he was doing in a place like this, in clothes that fit well and weren't dirty or used or ripped. He'd start thinking about every mouthful of food that wasn't dug out of a trash can or earned by being on his back, and he'd start wondering when the dream would stop and he'd be out on his ass again, scrounging in the dark like a roach or a rat. 

According to Henry, that'd never happen. Tony was one of his people now—the '_his'_, being the most important part of that sentence. Henry Fitzroy was royalty and vampire and those two personalities were pretty much convinced that Tony belonged to them, and death would come pretty quickly to anyone or any_thing_ that tried to say otherwise. Sometimes Tony thought that he should probably be scared about that, or resentful, or angry. Maybe a little warning voice was supposed to go off in his head and shout "you can't own people!" or something.

The thing was, Tony knew that wasn't exactly true. People owned other people all the time. He'd been owned by hunger, by cold, drugs for a long time…and by every single person who might've exploited those points of weakness for a chance to empty themselves in his body. And they hadn't cared if he broke or not, didn't look twice after they got what they wanted.

Henry was different. Even if the relationship was unequal as hell, even if there were times when that vampire mojo was really unfair to try and work against, Henry needed him first. Henry _needed_ him. Tony Foster. A street-kid, ex-junkie, ex-hustler, and pretty much the closest you could get to being a peasant in the twentieth century, but he'd saved the life of a prince with his not-even-close-to-being-blue blood. 

And Henry had been grateful for it; even half-dead and unconscious he'd held Tony's wrist between his hands like it was the most precious gift he'd ever been given, drank deeply and made helpless noises of need which, by the way, almost made Tony come in his pants they were that intoxicating. And Henry had sought Tony out afterwards, gone looking for the same blood that had restored his life, his eyes softened and really looking at Tony like he was something important, someone special.

And that's why he stuck around, why he let Henry feed from him again and again; because of the need in Henry's mouth at his wrist, and because sometimes, when the other man let down his masks, he could see it in his face. Loneliness. Henry needed Tony because Tony wasn't afraid to look at him and see everything he was. Tony liked feeling needed. 

He also liked the sex, no use denying that. Henry could make him come his brain just by saying his name sometimes, and Tony was a healthy, twenty-one year old guy. Of course he was going to keep coming back. Who wouldn't?

Okay, now he was thinking about Henry and sex, and he wasn't _ever_ going to manage to get some sleep at this rate. Tony groaned and rolled over on his stomach, face in the pillows, and squeezed his eyes shut. He had to work in the morning, and since tomorrow (technically today, it was after midnight) was a Thursday, he had classes at the college to get through after work. No time for a nap in between. He really, really needed to go to sleep. 

A key slid into the lock at the apartment's front door and he sat up and glanced quickly at the clock. Two-sixteen. Henry was back early. Knowing the other man could hear his heartbeat pick up speed, he didn't bother pretending to be asleep when slender fingers pulled open the bedroom door and a familiar body stepped inside.

"You should be asleep," Henry remarked mildly, shrugging out of his expensive-looking blazer and hanging it in the closet. Tony watched the line of his shoulders in the dark and drew his knees up under the covers. 

"I'm not that tired," he said. "You're back early. Did everything go okay, with um…you know…"

"The Hunt?" White teeth flashed for a second, and Tony felt his pulse jump, saw the grin widen and knew Henry heard it too. "Actually, I was interrupted. There was a bar fight. I almost got a tequila sunrise dumped down the front of me. That's the last time I dine in a three-star establishment. You can't count on their bouncers for anything." 

Tony rolled his eyes and listened for the soft thunk of Henry's shoes being stowed.

"Does that mean you're still hungry?" 

Henry turned to look at him then, his eyes knowing, considering. He reached an elegant hand out and laid it on Tony's hair. "The Hunger isn't bad. I can easily wait another night," he said softly.

_But you don't have to._

The response was unspoken. The quick thudding of Tony's heartbeat and the way he tilted his chin up to expose his neck was really all the permission Henry needed to shift the hand in his hair to cup his nape, to let his eyes darken and the Hunger come to the forefront. Cool fingers pushed the collar of his pajama top out of the way and Tony held his breath and waited for the sensation of sharp teeth sliding into his skin, opening his veins with a precision that surgeons only wished they could copy.

"Thank you," Henry breathed against his collarbone, and then Tony couldn't think of anything to say to that except _you're very fucking welcome oh god yes_ and he moaned out loud and twisted his fingers into the fabric of Henry's cream-coloured shirt like it would anchor him somehow. 

As Henry laid him back against the pillows and licked at the wound he'd made to make sure the coagulant in his saliva would stop the bleeding, Tony sprawled boneless and pleasantly buzzed on the mattress and reflected that it might not be so very hard to fall asleep after all.

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Fin.

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End file.
